


Oil and Water

by trinity_destler



Category: NCIS
Genre: Cop Tony, First Meeting, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Putting the Band Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinity_destler/pseuds/trinity_destler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of Abby meeting Tony and their finding something in common. After it takes a little while for the throbbing to stop and the skin to grow back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lab Rat

So Stan had one little nervous breakdown and he needed a change of scenery? Honestly, Abby had a nervous breakdown if she didn't get her morning sprinkles and a Caf'Pow in a timely fashion. It wasn't that big a deal. Gibbs told you to calm down and you got over it. Stan the adorably fastidious and painstakingly polite, Stan who got a kick out of everything, should know that Gibbs was all bark and (well okay, not _all_ bark, and okay so his bark was pretty bad) that he was loved and wanted and _needed_. He was an investigator, he should know.

It wasn't even like Gibbs skimped on the praise, no, he was pretty liberal with Stan. Stan needed to be appreciated or he got all self-doubty and ineffectual. Desperate to please, but not in the way that Gibbs encouraged. Of course his regular setting seemed to be stuck on 'over-achiever' and it _was_ pretty hard to get him to go home at night. She felt like she'd talked him off a few ledges, but that was how it was. Gibbs didn't go home, either.

And anyway, it was bad enough knowing she would be losing Stan-who-got-a-kick-out-of-everything without Gibbs charging off to Baltimore after some tangent that was only maybe part of their case. And it was bad enough being Gibbsless for ages and ages without him bringing home some stray from the Baltimore PD like he was family.

At least he'd need to go to FLETC and she didn't have to deal with him trying to replace Stan for a couple months. Because he was some cop- a detective, probably brittle and behind the times, probably too old to change but not old enough to be wise and cute like Ducky- and cops didn't get a kick out of everything. Most of the cops that came through her lab didn't get a kick out of _anything_. They were all too serious and judge-y and squinty-faced. Like Clint Eastwood. Or maybe working with Gibbs had that effect on normal people.

"Abby!"

She didn't deign to turn and greet her silver-haired fox even though she hadn't seen him in almost a month. She was still miffed with him for phoning to tell her about the new agent without caring in the slightest about what she'd been up to with all the evidence he'd sent her or asking her opinion on adding to the team or listening to her explain why he needed to talk Stan down and bring him back into the fold before he could leave for reassignment.

Gibbs' hand landed heavily on her shoulder and a Caf'Pow was pushed under her nose. His mouth was so close to her ear, she could feel his whiskers, sharp with a few days growth. He whispered, "Be nice," and kissed her cheek.

She sipped the Caf'Pow and raised an eyebrow. "You haven't been forgiven."

He patted her shoulder and slipped away, sticking his nose in her tests and skimming the results she'd left up on the plasma screen. "Abs, this is..."

"Anthony DiNozzo," a smooth, overconfident tenor voice interrupted, sounding distinctly like trying-too-hard with overtones of smug. The voice of a man who half expected every woman he met to fall in a dead faint at his feet in awe of his amazingness.

She let her eyes roll over the new arrival. He was tall (even in her book), but held himself with a disreputable slouch that made it clear his mother never taught him anything about posture. He was all long, lanky limbs and too much expensive suit opened too wide at the collar. She noted the slicked-back hair and the henna tattoos at his wrists and throat just starting to fade. She noted the too-suave smile (his teeth were perfect) and the fact that he was probably the most conventionally attractive human being she had ever seen live and in person.

There was a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach. She was sure she'd lost some colour. Did Gibbs really think this guy would cut it? He was obviously _that guy_. You know the one. He was tragically mainstream, the best-looking guy in the room and he knew it, he was primped and dripping with shallow charm. He probably knew the brand of everything he had on. And what was with his eyes? A discomfiting, flat-looking blue that seemed to want to sparkle at her, but couldn't.

"Speechless, Miss Scuito?" He commented on her unapologetic appraisal, looking delighted and entertained by it all, "It is _very_ nice to meet you, too."

She ignored the hand (huge, ugly, pricey wrist watch, fingers way too perfect and not at all callused- probably never built a boat in his life) he'd extended towards her (presumably to shake, but there may have been more insidious intentions) and put down her Caf'Pow to cross her arms. "What's with your eyes?"

"Huh?" the charm smile dropped off his face and his posture changed, standing straight he was definitely, _noticeably_ taller than Gibbs ( _so_ not on).

Meanwhile, Gibbs himself had finished his circuit of the room and rejoined the conversation, taking up a place beside Abby, "Contacts, DiNozzo."

"Thanks for blowing my cover, Gibbs," the attitude trickled back in and he smiled with elaborately phoney contriteness at Abby, "they're not really blue, Miss Scuito. I hope you're not too disappointed."

"Abby." She corrected, prickling at what he clearly thought was a winning tone, "And you're covered in fake tattoos and wearing coloured contacts because...?"

"Well I have this ex and-" he warmed to his theme and started to gesture expansively.

"Can it, DiNozzo," Gibbs cut him off impatiently, the quality of resignation in his voice telling her this was not the first time. "Found him undercover, Abs. Been kinda busy since."

"I see." She announced, as if this were highly suspect information.

Anthony DiNozzo smiled with broad innocence in the face of her silent hostility.

Then he went to FLETC.

Then he came back in jeans and a Frankie Says Relax t-shirt for his NCIS Hell Week and he made her laugh twice, but she still called him Not-Stan even (especially) to his face and she still didn't like him. Dressing down and quoting The Princess Bride may have upped his status to human from automaton scary shallow man, but it wasn't a free pass. After all, he was still running through his book of the 1001 lamest pick-up lines and being way too suave. Suaveness irritated her, it wasn't sincere. If you could be totally cool with someone, you probably didn't really like them that much.

She disliked affectation intensely and he seemed to consist of little else. He was incapable of having a normal conversation without trying to impress her with charm, smarm, or, if Gibbs was safely upstairs, the odd blankly flirtatious opening serve. She wasn't hitting back, though. Either he'd figure out she wasn't having with his frat boy act _or_ his James Bond act _or_ his dumb luck act, or she would pulverise him. And Gibbs would have to understand that she had been mightily provoked.

She didn't hold much hope he would realise she'd accept pretty much anything as long as it was _real_. She didn't let damage come between her and a friend, but she had no patience for poseurs.

During the second case she called him Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. In full. No matter what. He called her _bella Abigaille_ and grinned at her like he knew he'd won. It turned out his eyes were green and they _did_ want to sparkle, they sparkled almost all the time, as if he were perpetually knee-deep in mischief (which he probably was). It also turned out that he wore glasses when he thought no one was looking. He said he was in line to get the best laser surgery money could buy, that he was going to see way, way better than perfect; all they mere mortals would be shamed by his eagle eye. In the meantime, it seemed to be the only thing he actually got embarrassed about, so she'd taken to calling him Four Eyes by the time the third case rolled around.

She'd tried to keep him out of her lab and on his toes when he was brand new and gullible, but he was rudely comfortable everywhere he went and astonishingly nosy. It was like Gibbs had adopted an especially needy Great Dane. He was enormous and he was always underfoot, sticking his nose in, hovering, dogging your heels and eager to please. He even had great big hopeful begging eyes whenever some juicy assignment came up or he handed in his homework thinking he'd done well. The first time the boss thwacked him like a naughty puppy in her lab and he'd turned that same reproachful look on Gibbs she'd used to get from her family's beagle, she had laughed herself nearly sick.

Then came the fourth case.

She was absorbed in a polarising light microscope and some fragments of an unidentified plastic when she heard him shuffle in behind her. It could only be him because it wasn't Gibbs or Ducky or Stan's old probie whatsherface, but he normally walked with a long bouncy stride and this was definitely a shuffle. She pivoted on her platform Mary Janes to face the door and stared bemusedly at what she saw.

He was completely covered in blood spatter, from his crisp white dress shirt to his shiny black shoes. His hair was damp and sticking up (giving him something of a frightened hedge-hog look) and he'd apparently dunked his whole head, because his skin looked freshly scrubbed and he was wearing his glasses instead of contacts. She'd never had a good look at them before (not for lack of trying), but their delicate, round silver frames only augmented his classical bone-structure and she saw nothing to tease him about. They made him look chic and smart. All Ivy League and old money.

"Now, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, what _have_ you gotten yourself into?"

He glared mildly at her over the rims of his glasses, "Don't ask."

She grinned, weirdly pleased to have evoked genuine exasperation from Special Agent Stepford XXX. "If you say so, polka dots."

"I do," the glare intensified, his full lips pushed into something of a cross between pout and grimace.

Abby looked him over again, noting the way he held his hands away from his spoiled clothes. "Are you going to stall forever or are you going to take off what I assume is evidence?"

"I, uh..." he faltered and, shock of all shocks, he actually blushed. With his glasses on and his silly hair escaping every which way and his hand sheepishly scratching his cheek, he was a picture of unexpected adorableness. "Gibbs told me not to touch anything including myself. Do you think you could ask Ducky for some scrubs and then..."

"I could." She enjoyed his unconcealed relief a moment then added, "After we go in my office and I strip you for the evidence."

He gaped at her, "But-"

She held a hand up in his face, "Priorities, Agent Four Eyes! Evidence integrity comes before covering your butt. Come on."

"But, _Abby_ -" he protested, pointing feebly towards the widows and the glass walls. "And if _Gibbs_ -!"

She couldn't have been more entertained if she were seeing a Plastic Death, Android Lust double bill on a full six pack of redbull. He'd called her by her name for the first time and all of his games and fronts and attitudes were melting away in the face of good old fashioned unavoidable personal humiliation. If only she'd known torturing him would be productive as well as fun.

She took his hand and dragged him through the main lab, through the office, and into the ballistics lab, grinning at him over her shoulder as she pulled him along. If she'd known all she had to do to completely destroy his male bravado and deflate his bluster was to come on back just as strong, she would have done that first. Now he was putty in her hands, trapped between her uncompromising demands and the promise of Gibbs wrath.

Abby shut the door and turned on her victim, spreading his arms out to the sides so she could start unbuttoning his shirt. It was like having a great big Ken doll (she'd used to set hers on fire more than dress him up, but that was totally irrelevant). Sliding the shirt off, she totally ignoring his insulted protests that he could do it himself and his speculation about her enjoyment levels. She held up her gloved hands in explanation and denial, bagged the shirt and went on to his pants.

He went still as death as she worked the fly and she congratulated herself on silencing his cockiness so perfectly.

It was not to last.

"You know," he said conversationally, gathering his bearings, "if you really wanted to undress me, Abby, you could have said so weeks ago. I would have set aside an evening, maybe worn a few extra layers, made sure Gibbs was out of state..."

"Wow."

"What?" the slightness of the undercurrent of panic in his voice was pretty impressive, all situational factors considered.

She smirked up at him, "I didn't figure you for a black y-front underwear type, Tony."

His expression, behind his somewhat askew glasses, was at once so surprisingly bashful and so contagiously entertained, she had to laugh.

He raised an eyebrow playfully and something about him made so much more sense now, "There's a lot you don't know about me, Abby."

"Oh really?" She mirrored his expression, suddenly inclined to flirt back.

Tony grinned his leering, cocky grin, but he also slid a finger along the bridge of his nose to push his glasses up. And she thought she understood something.

"I think we've discovered something in common."


	2. Secret Agent Four Eyes

It was obvious he was being tested.

He may have toed the line of work appropriate apparel pretty tenaciously (and rather dashingly if he did say so himself) in Baltimore Homicide, but he'd never seen anyone- no matter how gifted- get away with a PVC mini-skirt and dog collar.

Not that he was complaining, it wasn't exactly the kind of thing that blew his skirt up, but Abby Sciuto was uniquely suited to the, uh... look. She sure wasn't a submissive, no matter how many leashes she attached to her body, but she did suit them in an abstract kind of way. Or something.

And she was certainly gifted. He'd gathered that fairly instantly when he realised the huge, three layer laboratory was apparently her exclusive domain, not so much as an assistant to cramp her style. And it wasn't like she was just running concurrent tests in one field, oh no, she was a whole one-woman forensic arsenal. Wait until he emailed the Baltimore lab monkeys. They probably wouldn't even believe him.

Besides her being scary smart (which she had to be, because _one_ science degree was definitely enough for _him_ ), she was some kind of uber special mascot of NCIS. Everyone he walked past on his first day tour mentioned her, like he was due to be taken before the Emperor for thumbs up or down. And Gibbs just stood silent behind him, smiling his almost imperceptible, enigmatic smile.

Yes, he was clearly being tested, judged, measured. Either the wonder Goth's reaction to him or his reaction to the wonder Goth would be used as some kind of yard stick determining the length of his stay as an NCIS Special Agent. At least, one who was under Leroy Jethro Gibbs' command. Which yeah, it was a command, not a civilian team; he was pretty sure he'd unwittingly joined the CORPS the day he _met_ Mr. High and Tight. Not that he was totally opposed to the idea, Gibbs' brutally demanding, no-excuses attitude had the warmth of familiarity. After six years of the paramilitary police force, six years in a frat house, and four in military school, he figured it was just meant to be.

Weird as it was to think of himself as the type of guy who'd do well in the military.

He was still suppressing the impulse to call Gibbs 'sir'. He doubted he'd be all that successful in the long run, no matter how many times he got snarled at. The ex-marine had the misfortune of reminding him of both his DI and his father. Not that Gibbs was anything like _his_ father, but he was enough like _a_ father that Tony found himself deferring instinctively to the treatment he'd been trained- by his _un_ fatherlike father- that fathers were owed. Basically the same treatment his DI was apparently owed. It was thick soup. He might develop some new neuroses even. That was always exciting.

The old hard ass dragged him through the NCIS building on tour the same way he'd dragged him around on the case they'd just worked back when he still had a job as a detective: by sheer force of personality. Tony was on his gruff unpleasablility like white on rice. Mostly it was Tony's dedication to the case, the job itself, that pulled him along for the ride, but he couldn't deny that embarrassingly large part of his psyche that sought approval from people like Gibbs. Men like Gibbs. He didn't know why the tasks he set himself were always the impossible ones. And, of course, just like there hadn't been time to clean up before he left Baltimore to be debriefed by NCIS, there apparently wasn't time before his Trial by Abby to look less like the sleaze bag he'd spent the last eight months pretending to be. If he never saw a Mafioso again, it'd be too soon.

Gibbs beckoned him into the domain of the Sciuto for the first time and he mumbled to himself about being about to die and saluting her.

God save us from the Queen.

Of course she'd hated him on sight. Judging by Gibbs' reaction, he had known all along she would hate him on sight. That the harder he tried to turn up the- usually fail-safe- charm, the harder she would hate him. And he knew that the test wasn't _her_ reaction, because _her_ reaction was obviously a foregone conclusion.

No, the test was clearly _his_ reaction.

Well, if NCIS thought he'd never worked with an eccentric before, they clearly hadn't spent much time in Baltimore. He wasn't one to judge people for their armour, his own was so thick he wasn't sure he was capable of taking it off any more. The version he'd perfected in college worked so well, he felt little motivation to change it. He'd tried in Peoria and he'd found just because he'd finally arrived in his chosen profession didn't mean it was going to choose him back. Not naked him, not Anthony. So Anthony went back in the lock box at the bottom of his Freudian sock drawer. He'd save Anthony, keep the shine on him, and maybe some day he'd give someone the lock box key willingly. Maybe.

Anyway, Abby Sciuto was far from the scariest or strangest woman he'd ever tried to kiss up to, and he felt like he'd given Gibbs very little to find fault with. His expression didn't shift or freeze unnaturally when he walked into the Lab of Horrible Noises and Long, Long Legs. But of course it didn't, he was a professional. Abby could have been half elephant or Meryl Streep or something and he wouldn't have missed a beat. That's what he did.

She wasn't, though. She was brightly pretty under her dark make-up, tall and slim, and she had stick people tattooed on her back. Really, really pretty, actually. She had great big eyes of glittery green and he already liked her even though she hated him ( _especially_ because she hated him?). Child-like sense of fun and wonder with a worldly, gravelly voice and a knowing look? Sign him up. A little hypocritical about care for the personal appearance (unless she was going to tell him that was her natural hair colour and therefore debase herself with an outrageous lie), because after all the effort that clearly went into her outfit (putting it on alone...) for her to sneer at his Hugo Boss was a touch on the ironic side.

And look, she had a row of toys above her computer and gas chromatograph. He might be in love. It'd be like Romeo and Juliet without the parents. So more like West Side Story, hopefully skipping out on dance fighting. It'd be Goths vs Jocks, or Nerds vs Preppies if she liked that better. His social group, like his mind and his job title, was fluid.

Her hypocrisy didn't bother him that much. If she liked Gibbs- which, yeah, obviously- he was pretty sure she'd like anyone once she'd decided they'd been around long enough. And he was easier to like than _Gibbs_ , fire breathing _dragons_ were easier to like. That made her instantaneous dislike for him funny somehow, but he had a twisted sense of humour and nothing entertained him more than a woman hating him before he'd done anything to deserve it. It made it all a bit more of a challenge to worm his way into their good graces.

It did disturb him that he'd tried, legitimately tried, to make her like him after she was so upset by his standard routine and she still didn't. This did not happen often. Or... ever. If there was one quality he possessed that he had total confidence in, it was his ability to be what the other person wanted him to be. He was cursed and blessed with this power of blankness and it had earned him a life-shorteningly fast ride up the career ladder as he slid under and out of cover, trailing collars like he was Sam Spade and James Bond put together (making detective at age twenty-eight hadn't earned him many friends at the precinct, either). It had fucked up his personal life- such as it was- but good. He cared less about that, though, he figured himself as a lost cause for the side of normalcy whether he wanted to be normal or not.

Anyway, why shouldn't she like him? He was a nice guy! She hated the suit, he could respect that (not _understand_ it, but it took all kinds), so he'd tried to meet her half way, but nope.

.

"Twenty questions time."

"Newbies don't get to ask questions, Not-Stan. Stay behind the invisible line! This is a Gibbs-Abby-Ducky only zone! Alarms will sound!"

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Someone who doesn't have to answer questions from the newbie."

"I want to be a quarterback slash rock star."

"Don't be silly, Not-Stan, being a rock star is a full time job."

"I thought that's what you did with your free evenings."

.

He'd made her smile and her smile made him smile.

.

Abby orbited Gibbs as she rambled off her findings on their mystery hairs, but Tony was banished to the doorway because the brand of shoes he was wearing wasn't allowed in the lab. Just like his shirt had contained a synthetic harmful to the lab's air balance the day before. Or some other arbitrary mumbo-jumbo she'd made up. He wasn't keeping track any more, it was too ridiculous.

"Hey, Abigail! Pop quiz!"

She turned from her evidence mojo dance (which had started as soon as Gibbs stormed off on a coffee run) and glared at him with more exasperation than malice.

Tony grinned at her, "What's the one thing you've never wanted to be?"

Abby rolled her eyes and turned back to the computer, her foot bobbing along to the noise she called music, "Average."

While he probably should have, he didn't really expect that answer and he fell quiet, leaning against the door-frame.

She glanced over her shoulder, "Existential crisis, Agent Four Eyes?"

"Nah," he laughed a bit and waved her off, "I don't have much exist to stential over, do I?"

He felt stupid. 'Average' was the one thing he'd _always_ wanted to be. He was sure he'd probably hate it if he ever attained averageness, knew he also kind of wanted to be a superhero and a secret agent and a movie star, but since he was very young, he had had a weird sense of having missed something very important. Something crucial. By not being average.

She seemed to have had a pretty normal childhood, but she still held on to childish things. Maybe he was understandable and she was the one who was screwed up? But no, he was always the one who was more screwed up. This was a well-attested fact of his life.

"Are you okay?" Now she was so close to him all he could see was half a pale green iris and plumes of thick black eyelashes.

He leaned away from her and covered his whole aura in a mantle of sleaze, "Better _now_."

She frowned at him and shook an admonishing finger in his face. Then she was gone, back at work.

Tony thought he got why she was friends with Gibbs.

.

He hated so much to be seen in his glasses. It could _not_ be worse for his image. He caught sight of himself in the elevator doors and winced at his reflection. He looked like all the high culture, intellectualism and sharpness he had spent _years_ completely purging from his persona.

He'd been an intellectual once, a _very_ long time ago, and it was still too close. It sucked, he wasn't doing it again. People didn't need to see this and get the idea anywhere near their head. No matter how much he'd prepped them, taught them not to see it, they still might. They still might.

Damn it. Abby definitely would. He couldn't get anything over on that girl once he'd gotten the very first thing over and she'd held it against him ever since.

She obsessively ferreted out the damage in people like some kind of demented, prickliness-seeking missile. He had a terrible, terrible suspicion that she wouldn't stop digging or accept him into her little family until she'd seen the _truth_. And what could be worse?

Lasik was soon, soon, soon. And then he wouldn't have to worry about this. But it was too late, now, much too late to stop Abby from seeing this and she would see so much more than just corrective lenses. She'd see all that fucking _history_ , all that truth and the adding of corrective lenses was somehow- ahahahaha- the stripping away of masks.

He was snapping a little bit. He could admit it.

But when people knew he was money and high education, it tended to ruin his life.

Bad enough to be pretty and a little too good at his job. Sob sob, life is so hard. Well, fuck, it _was_. Things are rough all over, especially when everyone hates you for being 'ahead'.

She already hated him just for the pretty thing. Could he help that? He tried to, he made himself awfully repulsive (was that why he did it? He was getting confused) and anyone who would have cared tended to forget about it. Except the people that cared for reasons other than appreciative ones. They still saw it and they still hated him, possibly more. Lose lose.

There she was, summing him up. Seeing too much.

And suddenly it was all hanging out and she was smiling at him with a bright, beautiful loveliness that knifed him in the heart.

She saw too much (maybe all of it), and she _liked it_.

Maybe even liked _him_.

Not a him he had made for her, a him that showed through the cracks.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and briefly loved them, briefly loved her, and felt more like himself than he could remember ever feeling. He'd still get the surgery, he'd still need to hide, but there was something here, a flash of something that told him the understanding she extended to the damaged and the downtrodden- the truth she sought- would remain. And she'd always see him this way.

And maybe even like him for it.

"You know this is sort of unprecedented."

Abby looked up from filling out the chart on her evidence bag, "What?"

"Knowing what underwear a woman wears without..."

"Well," she interrupted, using his hand to lever herself up from the floor, "we'll have to have an unprecedented relationship."

He smiled gently, "No worries there."


End file.
